Winter Idyll
F. Price
The dry-lipped grass curls back
And bares the pitted stones,
And the tree, in its new lack,
Bares, now, its angular bones.
Man looks – and looks away
From earth to a bleak sky,
Where, high above the day,
Where high above the sky
The last geese, going by,
Pass the horizon's rim;
And man, remembering where
A door will welcome him,
Turns in the darkening air,
And takes him there